


Of Fortune and Regret

by alacarton



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Angst and Feels, Cullen Rutherford Angst, Cullen Smut, F/M, Fluffy but Sad, Gratuitous Smut, Papa Cullen, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Single Dad Cullen If That's a Tag, for one chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alacarton/pseuds/alacarton
Summary: "Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,Rendered to dust.Bitter is sorrow."She told herself she broke his heart to save him. But regret is a fickle fiend, and truth merely a perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

She met him on the back steps, deep glinting slabs that led down to the peaceful river, green meadow laid out before them, the warmth of summer air in a gentle breeze. The mabari laid at his feet, tongue lolling, stretched across his master’s leg and snoring contently, the smell of fresh cocoa amongst the air. It was almost intrusion, and she bashfully wanted to apologise for interrupting the peaceful scene.

“Commander.”

He was nothing like the _Commander_ that had stalked the battlements of Skyhold, that had peered over the grand War Table, serious and stoic. Unbound by armour, his skin tanned, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, golden curls neatly trimmed, but untamed, wild, _free._

“Now, that is a title I have not been addressed by in a long time.” And an achingly familiar, _gorgeous_ smile, tipped at the edges, lips curling at the corners.

“Forgive me. Ser Rutherford.”

“Just Cullen is fine, Lady Inquisitor.”

_Lady Inquisitor. Since when were they back to titles and formality? Had they not once been on far more familiar terms? Had they not once been colleague, friends, lovers? Had they not once bared their very souls, naked and shameless, kept safe and secret by ancient walls and quiet contemplation?_

Not now.

“I see your guard dog is well trained.”

“Who, this bloodthirsty creature? He would have your arm for a snack, obviously.” A hand reached down to affectionately pat the snoring beast as Elicia sat beside him, looking out over the sun kissed grasslands.

“It is beautiful here.”

“It is. I was very fortunate when Divine Victoria granted me this land.”

“You have done something wonderful here.”

“We still have much to do. It is merely a start.”

Silence fell, and it was not one she could allow, awkward and unusual.

“Have you been well?”  
  
“I have. And you?” There was such little response from him that it concerned her. He gave little away, continuing to scratch at the loyal animal at his feet. She found she could not reply, emotion choking in her throat, snuffing out any moderated response she had, jumping when he spoke once more. “Why have you come, Lady Inquisitor? I do not mean it with any ill will but…I cannot help but satisfy my own curiosity.”

Why had she come? _Because I missed you? Because I was wrong? Because we could have been so much, so much that we let slip through our fingers?_ “I…I wanted to see you. You left so quickly, we…Much has happened in these years…”

“This is the part where you tell me you are to be wed, isn’t it?”

“Cullen…” For the first time, his eyes met hers, deep pools of gold, and she knew he had barely meant the humour in the comment, that beneath this mask lay the truth - _he hurt as she did_. Maker, how could he always read her with such ease? “I wanted to tell you…in person…”

There was no denying the flinch of pain that crossed his face, the brief, anguished crumple of smooth skin, gone in a whisper as the stoic gaze returned, and the distance suddenly seemed to be an ocean between them as he looked away, fingers ringing together. “My congratulations. I am sure House Trevelyan will be thrilled with the news.” There was little emotion in his voice, and she recognised the stiff jaw with which he spoke, the careful, measured words.

“ ’Twas my father’s idea in the first place. I cannot say I am entirely enthused about the idea. There has been no promise of a wedding yet. I must decide if I can stand the man first.”

“What a pity should your betrothed hear you say that. I am sure _he_ is not the objecting party.”

“A pity to forsake love for station, for good grace?” The tension between them was tangible, suffocatingly broad, her admission stark and painful. _Had she really mentioned love once again?_ She wanted to reach for him, to pull them together, to beg him to even _look_ at her. _How had they become this?_ “I try so hard to forget you…to believe we did the right thing. But every single time, it comes back to you.”

She saw the stiffening of his shoulders, the deep frown that unfurled across handsome features, and uncomfortable honesty made him sigh, a bitter, broken sigh. For a moment, he looked as though he may have wept, that the same longing in her eyes was found too in his. But it was gone, carefully practiced reason and measure returning in a breath and he straightened up before speaking. “We made a choice, Lady Trevelyan. I believed it to be the right one, and I still stand by my reasoning.” He stood, the mabari whining at the abrupt movement, rising to it’s feet as his master beckoned him to follow. “Forgive me, but I believe it best we end this  discussion here.”

“I…Cullen, please don’t…”

He stepped past her, mabari offering her a courtesy sniff as he passed, winding around the man’s legs as he paused at the door, their eyes meeting once more. “I wish you good fortune with the nuptials, my lady. May the seas be fair for your journey. I hear rocky waters are forecast.”

Behind his departing back, she felt herself crumble, and could barely disagree - rocky waters, at sea and on shore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW smut included.

Elicia had stumbled from her bedroom in search of water around midnight but instead, she found herself confronted with her memories.

“ _I need it. Please! The demons…you must…please…_ ” A young man’s voice, begging and pleading, found her ears. Her room was at the very end of the building, tucked away next to only one other, and she knew the bed across from her would be empty. There were rooms beyond this corridor, beds which held little sleep and instead functioned as prisons for fear, for delusions and dreams, and she knew he would be there. As if proof, Cullen’s soothing reply drifting down the quiet hallway, comfort and reassurance meeting fear and pain, and she could hardly bring herself to listen as he willed the man to silence, hushed him as though a father with a fearful child.

It brought back the times she had held him while he pleaded so very similarly. She closed her eyes, leaning against the stiff wood of the door frame. It was fruitless to wonder what conversation was being had beyond the door, what desperate hands clung to him, pleading for mercy from the pain of his salvation. How often the voice begged to die rather than suffer through this.

“Forgive me, it is not always the quiet haven it appears, particularly by night.” His voice was gruff, filled with tiredness and sorrow, and it pulled her from her thoughts in surprise; she had not noticed his presence. The weariness of his task was an easy pain to see, face set in a grimace, and his earlier youth had disappeared, replaced with heavy eyes and a heavier heart.Their eyes met; he stiffened at the questions in her gaze, before sighing, almost reluctant, and slipping over the threshold, silently closing the heavy wooden door.

“I had forgotten how terrible the nights are.” She knew he needed no further explanation for her words, their meaning clear. _I know you must still suffer too_. “I see your loyalty to the Order brings you ever more duty.”

“The _Order?_ ” Cullen spat the words, an indignant huff following, and the sadness she had seen was replaced by an oh so familiar spark of anger, of burning ferocity. “I do not profess to agree with all _the Order_ has done, or stands for. _The Order_ has all but abandoned them, and for what? For daring to question what they followed… and this is their punishment. Their reward for so many years of service and devotion. No,  I do not do this for _the Order._ There men are my brothers. It is for them that I do this.”

In the following pause, they both sat at the edge of her bed, a hand of his running through the curls that fell across his face, troubled by his own anger.

“That man….is he young? He sounds barely beyond his adolescence…”

“Lyrium does not spare the youth. Not all Templars react in the same way. Some can withstand the effects, some can begin to withdraw, but for others…”  His hands wrung, pain crossing handsome features before he sighed. “The madness can be swift and brutal. There is often little that can be done. But it is better here than meeting the end wasting away on the streets, as beggars and vagrants. Here, at least, they know some kindness, a shred of dignity and peace. Something the Chantry declines to allow them, _continues_ to forbid.”

A lithe hand found his forearm, fingers curling around it, and the very touch of his skin was as though she had cured a nagging ache that plagued her, a compass finding north once more. She could not see him hurt, she _wanted_ to help him as he did for so many others. He had always been so damned selfless. “You cannot be responsible for it _all_.”

“I can try.” And at once, he was the Commander of her forces once again, firm determination replacing uncertainty, confidence, strength, safety all as one. “I want to believe I was given this chance to serve something greater than myself once again for…whatever the Maker believes right for me. Whatever path he lays before me, I will walk, I…I swore myself to this, however large a task it may seem. I have always placed my trust in Him, and if I can do even a small part of His work, I will be grateful for it.”

The piety was hardly surprising, but she could not help but scoff, shaking her head. “Very noble. The man who takes on the guise of his next promise and wears it as a cloak to hide himself away. Will you ever do what _you_ want?”

“This _is_ what I want.” The scowl on his face met hers, and he watched her before his gaze slipped, muttering bitterly. “That is better said from a woman not about to marry a man to satisfy her family’s pride.”

There was a surly silence, truth finally free, and she raised an eyebrow, tongue darting at her lips. “Does this mean you will not accept an invitation, should there be a wedding?”

He laughed, a brittle, sharp laugh, the idea a taste he could not stomach. “For what purpose? To watch another man covet what was once mine? To remind myself what I was not deserving of? My apologies, but I shall pass.”

His brutal honesty still did not sit easily with her, and she sighed, pushing at his shoulder to turn him to her. “Cullen…”

“What? Do you really expect me to say I have not missed you? That somehow I have forgotten several years worth of time? _Maker_ , Elicia…”

The frustration, the agony on his face, crippled her more than the anger ever had. Ire, she could shoulder but guilt was not as simple. Had she not prepared herself for that truth when deciding to come?

How it hurt. To be sat inches from him, yet the gulf between them wider by the second. She found herself reaching for him, bracing herself for the impact as she whispered his name in penance, and her lips met his, a shaking reunion that seemed to be impossible to refrain from. Cullen muttered an excuse against her, almost a choked sob; _we can’t, we shouldn’t, we wouldn’t._ But he betrayed himself as she tugged at his lower lip, a strong hand curling at the back of her head, twisting amongst dark, soft hair to press her to him and realised she had missed the rough hands so gentle with her, the weight of him against her, the press of smooth skin against her own; Maker, she had missed _him._ Few words were exchanged, mouths preoccupied, but fingers worked at buttons and wound thread, stripping each other of the minimal clothing they wore and tossing it aside; neither needed direction for where this was quickly slipping to.

Her back met the pillow atop the bed, broad muscle above her, and they were naked before one another once more. Her eyes roamed the familiar landscape of his body, fingers tracing the scars of a story she realised only knew snippets of in all. Lips nipped at the soft skin of her neck, following the smooth curve of her collarbone until he had taken her breasts in his hands, tongue twisting around her nipple, her hands winding amongst the golden curls she knew so well. Her heels found his hips, urging him against her, impatient, and a hiss of pleasure tumbled from her as his now free cock met the heat of her folds. Cullen sat up, enough to reach a hand down and slick himself, the whine on her lips dying as he buried between her thighs, their eyes finally meeting at the smooth friction, stilling at the achingly familiar pleasure as they joined, the strangled groan he did his best to bite back slipping through. She could see it on him, the ghost of when this was commonplace, when it was as easy as reaching across the bed for one another. He had seemed so foreign, almost a stranger after such a long time, but now… how could she pretend she barely knew the man who held her heart so easily?

His hips rocked, gentle at first, and hers lifted in time to meet each of his thrusts, hands curling in the soft sheets as they moved together, pleasure spilling through her. He dragged at her lower lip, mouth invitingly soft, as his hips met hers with more force; in a past life, she would have said _passion._ The sound of slick skin meeting filled the room, muffled groans of pleasure buried within the sheets, and her name, her _real_ name, was a fevered whisper, almost a prayer, upon his lips as he fucked her. Not _Herald,_ not _Inquisitor_ , nor even _Lady Trevelyan._ Not Commander and the Saviour of Thedas. Just Elicia; just Cullen. His cock filled her, over and over, deep thrusts at a pace that said he wanted this just as badly as she did. That he has missed this, missed her. That he _needed_ this too.

She would have said it was love making had it not been an admission of the impossible, had it not hurt to even think of it as such.  
  
Fucking was easier, less convoluted, simpler.

And she counted herself lucky for his mouth smothering her sinful moans as his knowing fingers delve between them, finding her clit with ease and dragging circles across it. Stars danced at the corners of her vision, breath catching in a strangled moan, and it was the smug satisfaction in his eyes as she came that was her undoing, back arching as her orgasm took her. She did not know how quickly after he had lost himself, rhythm giving way as he spilled himself within her with a low groan against her skin, gripping at her hips as he rocked against her, entirely lost in one another.

With a soft kiss, Cullen lifted himself from her, falling to her side, and she wasted little time in curling against him, damp blonde curls of chest hair tickling at her nose, his heaving breaths in time with her own. Before, she would have insisted on rising to tidy herself, but now she was too fearful of breaking the spell that bound them. Too daunted by the idea of reality seeping back in just yet.

Neither could find words, but there is little use for them anyhow - the look they shared said enough. A large hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone, and he kissed her once more, gentler this time, with care and with a sweetness that made her eyes sting. Every dark night, every bright morning in Skyhold, hidden away from the chaos of the world, entwined together as one, came rushing back to her, and she wanted to cling him and weep, and apologise. But he held her so fiercely, strong arms wrapping her in warmth, that she suspected her words were again, unnecessary. Was there words even in existence for what crept into the silence between them?

As the Fade claimed her, she could not help but feel she had wronged him once more, the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek filling her with guilt. He would never understand, and she did not need him to. This was safer, the only option, the path she had been forced to walk by something much bigger than herself. She was leaving him again, and taking another little piece of him with her once more, another crack in his armour, one step closer to shattering before her eyes.

And the cold bed she awoken alone in said he knew it too.


	3. Chapter 3

The silence at night was something Cullen still found strange. The peace the countryside afforded, the simple quiet of the rural setting, was nothing compared to the quiet he found in his own mind. The longer he found himself tending to the sanctuary, the more his own sanctuary seemed to grow. 

It had been months since Rylen had appeared, eager as always and with a quick wit. He was a good man, and the addition of his help meant a few precious hours to himself. At the other man’s insistence, they had built two smaller outbuildings further out on the expansive grounds; close enough to be fully involved, but with enough space for quiet peace and time alone. It was humble, a simple self-contained two bedroomed cabin, with a large fireplace he found himself sat before most nights, book in hand and his mabari snoring at his feet. A collection of books slowly grew on a shelf by the mantlepiece, accompanied only by his greatsword, unmoved since he had made this place home, unnecessary, a relic of a past he barely knew.

His faithful companion, however, had stirred tonight and stood guard at the door, growling at whatever was beyond it.He allowed himself to finish the page of his most recent library addition before rising from his chair, opening the stiff wooden door and allowing the mabari to push past him, bolting down the stairs and into the darkness.

A scent he knew, that pulled him was back to battlement meetings and the several months that had passed since the same woman had been stood face to face with him, drifted through the air. He had heard nothing, not even a word that her passage had been safe. He was unsure what he had been expecting; after all, she was travelling to be wed. But their parting has left so much unsaid, so much hanging in the balance of fate. He was not innocent, of course, and he blamed himself as much as anything for lacking the courage to stay at her side in bed, for staying away all morning until her mount had left the path into the distance. But regret was a fickle fiend, and he had almost broken his own resolve to contact her himself, even just to ensure she was safe, happy.  


“Is there anybody there?”

The light from his cabin spilled into the darkness, the mabari preoccupied with sniffing at a package left at the foot of the stair. He sighed to himself, disappointment at the absence, beginning to trot down the stairs. It was not unusual for overnight visits from some of the men who lived within the sanctuary, often confused or addled enough to lose themselves amongst the grounds, or for a stranger to appear in the night begging for amnesty. Cullen, however, froze as said package began to move, wriggling in the darkness and began to wail loudly.

He cleared the last steps in a leap, grabbing at what he now saw to be thickly layer blankets, and amongst them a babe, rounded cheeks pink in the night air, swaddled heavily and protesting loudly at the disturbance to it’s sleep. His hands seized around the child, eyes wide and stunned, staring down at the screaming infant. 

“Maker’s breath, who left you here? You are only a tiny thing…” 

The child was alone, accompanied only by a cloth bag and little else, and Cullen grabbed at it before hurrying back into the warmth of the building, mabari settling at the now closed door, fire still glowing at the hearth inside. The baby quietened as he hushed it, gently rocking the bundle of blankets in one arm, and as he leant down to peer closer, the familiar scent filled him, the cloth the child was swaddled in heavy with it. It was the scent of memories, of a life he once had known, of a woman he had once held. It was although she had walked in with this bundle, as real as she had ever been. As he unravelled the cloth, he felt fear rise within him, knowing an answer to his rhetorical question that was all but certain as a roll of parchment, tucked within the outer wrappings, fell onto the floor. Familiar cursive writing scrawled upon it made his heart sink, the looping scrawl of her handwriting like a ghost across his heart.

 

_The Free Marches are no longer safe for him. I was betrayed._

 

_You are the only one who can protect him._

 

_I beg you forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself._

 

His head spun, a thousand questions rising within him.The Free Marches no longer safe? What did that mean? Betrayed? By who? For what?

But with a whimpering wail, the questions were laid to rest as the infant pulled his attention back. In the light of the slow fire, he unwrapped the bundle, a hand grasping at his finger, flinching against the sudden cold, before staring up at the man before him. Large, bright eyes, easily recognisable as his own even so new, a smattering of dark golden hair, full lips with a perfect pout; he was a beautiful child. Clasped in one fat hand, a medallion crafted with the symbol of the Inquisition, the familiar old insignia smooth under his thumb. Cullen spun it between his fingers, tracing the carving on the back.

 _Finnian Anthony Dorian Rutherford. Summersday, 9:46 Dragon._  
  
“Three weeks. You are three weeks old, my little one.” He could barely whisper, the words leaving him rather as a choked sob, shock finally giving way to emotion, free hand wiping at his eyes. A son. He had a son. _They_ had a son. _Elicia_ had kept this hidden from him….Maker, it could be none other, as if he could imagine another…

The baby began to wail once more, and Cullen desperately hushed as he rocked him, scrabbling for the cloth bag that had accompanied the baby. She had filled the bag with his belongings; a bottle of milk, fresh napkins, plaid weave squares, clothes so small they barely covered his own hand, a knitted blanket he suspected had been handmade by the very person who had left it.

“She planned all of this, didn’t she…?” The baby fed hungrily as he offered the bottle, whimpers silencing, and Cullen sighed, leaning back into the chair, unable to break his gaze with his small charge. “Maker above, this is madness…How could I not know about you? Why did she…”

_She had been set to marry, betrothed to another noble heir at her family’s demand. But if she had been with child… that would have put all of that in jeopardy._

His child, he reminded himself. 

He had so many impossible questions, and such few answers.

“Hush, little one. You are safe… _Finn_.” He tried the name, the words rolling over his tongue, the baby himself snuffling as he fed. A son, he a father… How on earth would he explain this to Rylen, to the others? How on earth would he raise a child, alone? “Maker, when I asked for redemption, this…this was not what I expected…”

Unexpected was perhaps an understatement, but as the baby snuggled into him, Cullen felt a warm peace once again return to him, above even the pain and panic. Whatever remained unknown, whatever questions rose within him, the infant’s tiny grasp seemed to answer each one and the swell of love in his chest burned as hot tears prickled at his eyes once more.


	4. Chapter 4

The noise of the nearby village drifted through the window, the celebration of the close arrival of First Day. The light from the bonfire reached even here, the promise of a new year’s hope bringing merriment to the usually sleepy country town.

Once, Cullen would have been sitting in the tavern with them, contemplating the year behind them, pondering the year to come. Wondering what the Maker would place before him in the year to come. Now, however, it was a quieter affair, the first of many, he suspected. How times changed.

The last notes of a lullaby hung in the room as the infant drifted to sleep, Cullen rocking him in the crook of his arm. Placing a soft kiss to the very tip of his nose, a smile rose at the yawn it brought from his small charge, shuffling in his sleep at the touch. With practised ease he settled the baby amongst the furs lining his basket, carefully swaddling him within a crisp white blanket and wiping away the last of the milk at the corner of his mouth.

Before Cullen could even give name to it, the boy had become more familiar than perhaps anyone had ever been to him - no longer simply ‘the baby’ but instead Finn, his son. He seemed to grow at a pace barely comprehensible, and by the time the end of the year had come around he had turned from a helpless, wailing newborn to a pudgy, curious and decidedly stubborn infant beginning to babble and crawl.

Cullen watched, often in wonder, as he grew, and his love seemed to know no bounds. Each deep laugh and dimpled smile filling him with unbridled joy, and even amongst the sleepless nights, each morning seemed to start anew with the gummy smile he received on recognition, and the squeal of delight as he held the baby close. It had seemed his entire world had shifted, the focus so clearly this small boy who gazed at him so adoringly. Fatherhood had always seemed such a distant and impossible dream, meant for someone other than him, someone deserving. Yet here he was, and with the same conviction he had sworn himself to both the Order and the Inquisition, he would be the proudest father if this was the Maker’s plan for him.

With fat, rounded cheeks and legs that met in rolls, with a thick crop of golden hair and long lashes framing bright eyes, Finn was indeed a gorgeous little thing. Cullen supposed he was far from impartial, but the eagerness of the elderly members of the village to pinch a cheek or coo was his confirmation. He would often venture into town to collect supplies, Finn safely wrapped to him (Mia’s practical gift that seemed to become only more useful as the boy found his feet), and would need near an extra hour to allow for cheek-pinching time. Even the men at the sanctuary were often delighted by the easy joy of the baby, watching him play amongst the long grass by the river bank. One of the older Templars had once grabbed Cullen by the hand, and with clarity in his eyes that had been absent for so many months, imparted wisdom he would scarce forget: treasure this, _my child; they grow far too quickly._ It had left him longing to ask more, but the old man was gone, lost to silence and confused smiles once more. Cullen had contemplated his words every day since.

His family had been surprised at the news, to say the least, but had in typical fashion, smothered the boy with love. Rosalie sent packages of clothing often, hand-me-downs from both her and Branson’s respective sons, whilst Mia often included a newly knitted hat or socks and thicker blankets for the winter. Both sisters would write long letters full of advice (Branson preferred to instead counter each piece of advice with a joke), and he would dutifully write each week, detailing just where he had found the remainder of the dinner they had suggested whilst bathing the boy.  At his eldest sister’s persistence and Rylen’s insistence, he had travelled to stay with them to celebrate Satinalia. Cullen was certain both he and Finn had left South Reach several sizes larger with full bellies, and most certainly with fuller hearts. Despite the shock and uncertainty of the past months, watching his son surrounded by his elder cousins brought him peace. With the smell of Mia’s cooking filling the house and a warm hearth to enjoy a mug of cocoa around with his siblings, it seemed almost natural.  As if it were the way things were supposed to be.

The townsfolk had whispered at first, unsure of how to approach the subject of the new addition, before eventually simply choosing to act as if the baby had always been with him. Cullen had later found that the rumour was that it was the child of Chantry Sister from Redcliffe with whom he’d had a brief, passionate affair. Just who had started the gossiping he was unsure, but it proved a useful distraction from any further questions.

The truth about Finn’s mother was not something Cullen was ready to answer. Maker, he wasn’t sure he had quite made peace with it in his own mind yet. The boy would need an explanation one day, he deserved little else, but the further away that day remained, the easier Cullen found making sense of it all. How he would explain, he did not yet know.  
  
Watching him sleep now, a flare of anger rose within Cullen; that his son could ever seen this situation, could ever hear the story, and think for himself that he was left because he was unwanted or somehow at fault brought out the very worst in him. How dare Elicia make that a possibility. How dare she choose to make such wide-reaching decisions without so much as a word. He wanted to hate her, to be so impossibly angry that he could leave his love for her behind.

And yet, she had given him a child; the gift of a new life, regardless of how they had been introduced. _How could he possible hate her?_   
  
It was an impossible proposition, and Cullen found it hard to maintain anger whilst watching over the sleeping babe. Finn deserved more than a hateful, guilt-filled father. It was a promise he had made so early on, that the boy would know nothing but happiness, and Cullen intended to keep it until his last breath.   
  
Satisfied the boy was settled, he made himself comfortable once again, sitting at the desk along the wall with the latest page of a thick, hard-backed notebook open before him, paper obstinately blank. It had been a present from Mia, early after he had told her of Finn’s arrival. Cullen religiously kept a detailed record of each milestone within it; Finn’s weight from the healers in the town’s clinic each month, the date of his first tooth’s shiny appearance, even the first dada that had left his mouth (whether it was with intention or not). Cullen did his best to write each week, sometimes only a small note of love, others an entire page of events. It had started as a keepsake, a memento for the day Finn was old enough to both want to and be able to read it.

Once, though, it had also been a promise to himself that he would see her again too. That he and Elicia would sit together, and he would recount each entry with his own memory added for detail, to her to fill the gaps in all she had missed. That they would have time together, for Finn to know his mother and for every question to have an answer, every worry eased, to share their son and delight in him together.

He so obviously favoured the Rutherford side that it had made any recognition of his mother impossible to the untrained eye, but Cullen saw it. The very curve of his ears, and the long fingers with which he made his demands known. The quick flash of annoyance, the upturned lip and frustrated huff that came with the tumbling of a tower of blocks. The tilt of his head, the raise of a brow, the questioning look with which he surveyed the world. Each moment of recognition came with a wave of hurt, the sudden, overwhelming feeling that something was missing. That something was wrong.

And now, that feeling seemed to be a permanent fixture in their lives, and any hope of resolution an impossibility reserved only for his dreams.

He sat before the fire with the quill in his hands for a long while, eventually finding the words to put ink to page, chewing over his writing at a laborious pace.

_I’m not sure how I will ever tell you what this day will mean for you. You are far too young to understand just how everything has changed.  This, I cannot fix for you and my heart breaks._

It was two weeks since the news had first began to spread.  A messenger, hurried and out of breath, had arrived with a message for him from the Divine, just as the awful rumours were beginning to reach his ears.

An official letter, with an attached note in handwriting that was so familiar to him; Leliana. His eyes caught her words, and it took all he had to read on, panic quickly rising, the familiar feeling of the world crashing about his ears quickly creeping into his blood.

_Cullen. I’m so sorry. Val Royeaux is not as far as it seems. Please keep in touch._

The letter was headed by the official symbol of the Chantry, and the cold printed words read as though a eulogy. There had been a shipwreck in the open waters off Kirkwall. Onboard, amongst others, the Inquisitor and her new husband, supposedly bound for a quiet honeymoon. The weather had turned, and the ship had been lost at sea, countless souls perished. Her husband had survived, pulled from the water, but there was no such luck for his new bride.  Bereft and inconsolable, he had returned to Kirkwall and the rescue had been called off. All Southern Thedas had been plunged into mourning, with Divine Victoria announcing an official month of grieving.

_A month? A month barely scratched the surface._ It had been over two weeks, and the fog of grief had barely released Cullen from it’s heavy grip.

Elicia living another life in Ostwick he could manage, barely. But Elicia dead was barely comprehensible. Every moment together, from the fragile beginnings in Haven, her crippled body so light in his arms on the edge of that snow-covered mountain, to her triumphant return from the final battle, and her gleeful smile as he had slipped the ring onto her finger, seemed to shatter in an instant. Each quiet whisper of love, each private morning in the peace of Skyhold, the secret nights spent watching the stars from the battlements. The very touch of her, the sweet scent of her hair after a bath, the final night they had spent together in the shadows here, slipping through his fingers like quicksand as he scrabbled to make sense of it all.

_She was gone._

Of course, it was not only he who would be grieving. The news came that Kirkwall had covered itself in black at the Viscount’s orders, who himself was seen laying flowers at the public memorial to her. Ostwick held a public mourning at the statue that had been erected (she’d sneered when the letter had arrived at Skyhold that her former home planned to honour her) and supposedly the wreaths measured three feet high. Orlais held what he considered to be a grotesque parade in Val Royeaux, with Celene supposedly cloaked all in black, with much wailing in the streets.

Elicia would have hated this, all this fuss, this pompous posturing. Even in death, she would have despised the unnecessary displays.

Cullen hid himself between caring for Finn and the men at the sanctuary, barely managing to remain stoic to Rylen’s prying eyes. Behind the closed door of his quiet retreat each night, he crumbled; grieving for her, for himself, for their son, for everything that had been all but promised and snatched from them. It was a raw, shattering grief, tinged with an anger he could not deny, and the pain of secrecy only added to is. To grieve so publicly would be an admission of a truth he himself could not yet bare to acknowledge. Of a love that had seemed to slip through his very fingers, and burn as it did. Of a future that had been so close, and then snuffed, in the skip of a heartbeat.

There was an anger in his pain if only for his sanity. Perhaps forcing himself to believe she had solely abandoned them for ease of her new marriage would make the hurt of losing her more bearable; after all, a bastard child and a broken engagement to a commoner ex-Templar was hardly endearing to Marcher nobility.

And in amongst the chaos of it all sat Finn, innocent and entirely unaware of the enormity of just what had transpired.  Cullen was numb with grief, but as he rocked the boy to sleep each night, it was enough to peel apart the thinly veiled crack in his demeanour.  With unknowing eyes, his very own eyes replicated so perfectly, he could not fail to notice that the baby’s attention often remained on him as he wept, cradled in the crook of his arm and staring, as if he could sense the change in his father.  As if he could understand the stories told to him, the pain and anguish in each word. As if he could share in his loss.

What hurt the most was that Cullen was left with the lingering sting that he had failed his son. His memories of his own mother, faded as they were now, still remained tucked into the very corners of his soul; the smell of her hair, the warmth of her embrace, the gentle voice of a lullaby he still knew the words to if only when he sung them himself.  Memories that had kept him sane in the wildest moments of his life, when little else made sense. Finn would never have that. He would forever be missing one half of a whole, with Cullen only able to fill the spaces he knew, woefully inadequate at best. The boy deserved better.

He gave up his attempts to write with an irritated sigh, instead lifting the pile of paperwork that awaited him at the other side of the desk. There was a short knock on the front door of the cabin, Cullen barely having time to respond before Rylen appeared, the dishevelled look of merrymaking about him, all shackles of responsibility lifted for the night.

“I saw the smoke from the chimney, figured I should check in on you.”

“You didn’t have to…Shouldn’t you be out celebrating? It cannot be long until midnight.”

“I’m just returning to the festivities. One of the bar maids spilt a flagon of ale over me. She was pretty though, so it’s forgivable…”

The younger man’s errant grin raised a smirk in Cullen. “Is this the young lady you’re attempting to court, _Ser_ Rylen?”

“How did you know, _Ser_ Cullen?” Rylen laughed, a short, sharp laugh, that faded as he studied the busy desk before the other man. “Are you sure you won’t be joining us for one drink? It is First Day…”

“No. The lad’s settled now and I’m enjoying the peace. Taking the chance to catch up on some…correspondence.”

Leliana’s careful handwriting covered the letters on the desk, fine parchment and intricate ink setting it aside from his usual messages. An invite to attend the service in Ostwick. At the request of Bann Trevelyan, all members of the former Inquisition were to attend. Cullen had yet to formally reply, but the little envelope seemed to weigh so heavily in his mind, and a small part of him wished to attend if only for the irony; _Greetings Bann Trevelyan, this is the grandson your family would prefer remained a secret_.

Rylen’s knowing eyes cast over the letters, he had received an invitation himself, hesitating before speaking again. “Are you planning on attending the memorial?”

“No.”

“…are you certain?”

“Very much so. Besides, the journey would be too long for Finn. South Reach was far enough, a voyage across the water would be a challenge.” Cullen gestured towards the sleeping infant in the basket, Rylen tip-toeing across the room to peer over, his usual lop-sided grin appearing as he watched the rosy-cheeked infant.

“Just as well he has you, isn’t it? Poor wee thing, losing his mother so young.” His words caught Cullen off-guard, and he froze, before staring at Rylen, mouth suddenly dry, unable to form words.  The younger man’s face paled, the magnitude of what he had said becoming quickly apparent.  “Cullen, I didn’t…I mean, Maker’s breath, it’s hardly a difficult thing to work out…I haven’t said a word to anyone, I swear. I suspected there was a reason you kept it a secret, and the boy is safe here…”

The tangible strain forced silence upon them, before Cullen sighed a bitter sigh of resignation, dropping the quill from his hand.

“She left him here, with a note of apology.” His quiet voice broke Rylen’s awkwardness, his eyes unable to rise to meet the young man’s. “Her parents had her betrothed to a powerful noble family of Marchers. They had already threatened war over the issue, it was a nightmare. Whether it would have come to it or not, it was… the best choice for her.  Bann Trevelyan felt she had duties at home, a responsibility to her family, and she…obviously agreed. The Inquisition had no future, she had no reason to deny them any further.  We recognised that we could never be wed while this remained. She was supposed to be returning home to resolve the situation, but when she came back…things has obviously changed. We…She ended the engagement, the Inquisition disbanded shortly after…it is not a time I try and linger on, it…it is painful. She came to see me one last time before she sailed for home, here, I’m sure you remember…” He trailed off, instead gesturing at the basket before the fire. “Well…’

“A fond farewell?”

It raised a brief smirk, with enough of a humourless snort to break the silence. “Something like that. I am sure I do not need to explain. But it was different, she said…I thought she came to apologise. I’m not sure anymore.” A hand found his temples, closing his eyes with a snarl. “Why did I not stop her? I could have… I could have saved her. I should have saved her, I let her go…She would be alive if I had insisted, if I had tried harder...” Guilt gnawed at him, the same questions that poured through the nightmares that plagued him pouring from him. “Why did I? I…Maker…”

He fell into silence, and Rylen’s near pitiful stare was almost maddening. “I’m sorry, Cullen.”

“Not as sorry as I am.” Cullen shuffled the invite to the side, lifting himself from his melancholy and restoring his usual facade of dignified stoicism. “And now we face this. First, she left me, and that I could understand. Then she abandoned the baby here. Now, she has left us both for good. I want to grieve, Rylen, to be truly heartbroken but that is difficult when…how could she…” His words stumbled to a halt, and he shook his head, waving a hand. “Regardless, she is not my priority. Finn is. My son, and this place, need me. She made her choice a long time ago, and she made it very clear when she left him that she did not wish to be involved in our lives any further. So no. At her earlier request, I will not be travelling to Ostwick, I will not be involving myself with her memory.  There is nothing there for either for us.”

The room fell quiet, save for the snoring of both the baby and the mabari in the far corner.  Rylen was silent for a good while, before clearing his throat.“I will admit that…it baffles me. I did not think the Inquisitor would do such a thing.”

“You and I both. Yet, here we are.” A soft sniffle from the basket quietened the two men, both glancing over as the baby shuffled in his sleep, Cullen leaning back in the chair dejectedly. “I don’t know what I am doing. Most days, I am barely stumbling through. I…”

“He is a happy, healthy little thing. Surely you are doing something right, Cullen. And this place…look at the good we are doing. _In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars_ -”

“And know Your Light remains.” It was enough to raise a smirk, Cullen drumming his fingers on the desk. “Are you trying to make a point?”

“Inspiration, nothing more.” Rylen shrugged easily, turning and opening the door to leave, pausing briefly to look back at him. “I need to return to my awaiting lady, but we can discuss this further tomorrow, if you wish.”

“Or we could never speak of it again.”

“If that’s what you wish. I may see fit to interject every now and again, however.”

“ _Rylen._ ”

The younger man chuckled, humour returning to his face. “I’ll see you in the morning, Cullen. Don’t stay up too late, now.”

Cullen managed a wave at Rylen’s departing back, returning to ponder over the rest of the page, quill spinning easily between his fingers as the cabin fell into silence again. The small statuette of Andraste stood guard on the shelf above, still as ever, watching as he remained lost for words. Faith had always been the rudder on which he steered the sails of his life, at times a gentle guide, others the last hope before ruin. How typical of Rylen to use it as his inspirational speech. The local Chantry Sister had played that hand already, a sermon about the responsibilities of a father; guidance, wisdom, kindness, humility, grace, love. It had been instilled in his as a child, and the kindly reminder at Finn’s dedication service at the Chantry had been hardly necessary, yet Cullen had deliberated on every word. His own father had once told him the Maker would provide what he could not, and for his son’s sake, Cullen prayed it was true.

All that mattered was the small child asleep next to him.

As if on cue, the chimes from the village bell marking the arrival of midnight rang out, and the baby stirred, a pitiful wail rising from him. Cullen finished the last of his note, leaving the ink to dry as he lifted the infant out of his basket, hushing him and tucking him against his chest as he had done so many times.

 

_I am not alone. Even,_

_as I stumble on the path_

_with my eyes closed, yet I see_

_The Light is here._

 

_It is just you and I, little one. For good this time. I’m not sure what the days ahead hold, but know that I will love you always._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only 6 months late, whoops.
> 
> Thank you so much to all who read, and take the time to comment/kudos/criticise/constructively deconstruct it.
> 
> The plot's gonna dive forward from the next chapter, with a bit of a time skip, so saddle up. There'll be plenty more angst where we are headed!
> 
> And of course, as always, I can be found on Tumblr at cullywullycurlywurly.tumblr.com.
> 
> Ciao til next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to @heffalumps, my wondrous starlight and beta (who has listened to me whinge for a solid two weeks straight)

“And Alexander says they put the most toffee in the bag, but I think he’s wrong! These are _definitely_ the best this side of the Frostbacks.”

The little boy beamed in delight as he shook the bag of toffee in hand, eyes the size of globes, and his father could not help but laugh at the simple delight as he took a piece from the proffered treat.

“Is that a fact?”

“Mhm!”

“Well, it does taste good…”

Finn skipped along the road next to him, face quickly covering in sugary remnants, Cullen revelling in the tranquility even with the excited chatter next to him. It was a weekly ritual, the journey into the town for supplies, the polite conversation with the townsfolk, and the small bag of goodies they shared on the walk home. As he had turned five, Finn had begged to be allowed to attend the local school in the town, and now spent most mornings there. With the boy gone, Cullen found daytime at the sanctuary far quieter than he perhaps liked, and this time together during the day was precious. The years of having the little one as his toddling shadow seemed to have vanished in the blink of an eye, and instead stood an increasingly precocious child, curious and inquisitive, and growing rapidly out of his shoes. But still, in the quiet of morning, Cullen would awaken to gentle prodding at his face, Finn eager to simply lie together under the covers and laugh at nonsensical things, or for Cullen to repeat the same stories over and over. Fatherhood, he found, was a simple joy that seemed to fill near every space in his heart, and provided more reward than any rank or station he had ever held.

They approached the entrance to the sanctuary, and a figure stood under the cover of the porch. As they drew nearer, Cullen recognised it as a one of the elderly Templars, cowering against the wall. He barely hesitated before breaking into a jog, Finn scrambling behind him, and they climbed the stairs two at a time, the Templar grabbing at Cullen’s tunic with a cry, terror on his face.

“A Seeker, Knight-Commander. A Seeker is here, in the front room. A Seeker, what have I done, what can we do-”

“Relax, Ser Wilfred, I will speak with the Seeker. I am sure it is nothing to do with your conduct. Perhaps the Seeker is here merely to talk.” At his words, the Templar seemed to ease, seeming to return from whatever paranoia had seized him, wide eyes searching wildly before hovering over the bag of toffee in the young boy’s hands, terror beginning to disappear.

“Is that...toffee? I’ve...I’ve loved toffee since I was a boy...”

Finn immediately offered up the bag, shaking it towards the man. “Wanna share?” The old Templar beamed delightedly, plucking a square of toffee from the bag with a hum as Finn grinned. “It’s good, right?”

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief, the man’s distress disappearing at the distraction. As the lyrium madness crept through minds, some men became unpredictable. Wilfred had arrived with near full faculty of his mind, but in the months he had been here, had slipped to believing he was once more a serving Templar. It kept the peace, if nothing else, and was far kinder than many of the cases they had seen in recent months. “Finn, would you and Ser Wilfred head to the kitchens and unpack our supplies? I think Marianne could use a hand with preparing dinner too…”

The boy glanced to his father before nodding. “Yes Da’...” He gestured to Ser Wilfred as he took the large sack of supplies, dragging it along the ground as he went. “There’s plenty more toffee where that came from! C’mon!”

Cullen watched them, pride swelling in his chest as Finn chattered to the elderly Templar with barely a glance backwards.There was little that fazed the boy, and even with the most senile man he could draw out a conversation that somehow seemed to make sense, if only to him. He was gentle of both heart and soul, with quiet acceptance of everyone and anyone, a bright disposition that seemed to fill a room. Cullen often wondered if he had been the same as a child, before the world had snatched that innocence from him. He read voraciously, with many of the Templars loaning him their older books, and had an easy hand with a sword too, delighting in practicing with his father - secretly, Cullen prayed the latter would never be of use to him, but he was too pragmatic to believe it.

With their departure, Cullen’s attention turned instead to their guest. _What could a Seeker want with their work here?_ The Chantry had never sent a representative, save for the odd Sister who accompanied a man on the journey here. Even then, they were few and far between - Sister Giselle perhaps had made the most appearances. He steeled himself, before opening the door to the front room, a figure by the window turning to face him - and it was one Cullen would have known regardless of the passing of time, relief washing over him. “Lady Pentaghast. This is a surprise.”

“Commander.” The familiar thick Navarran accent was unmistakable. The woman had barely aged; perhaps life’s premature attempt had rendered it now impossible. The same sharp eyes, the same smooth skin and stiff posture. The same Chantry adorned armour that she wore, never dulled by the trials and tribulations the Divine’s counsel faced.

“Just Cullen, if you would. And to what do I owe the pleasure of you upsetting Ser Wilfred?”

Cassandra sighed, glancing past Cullen into the corridor. “I did not mean to upset…Perhaps I was careless in my arrival. I was...I was hoping we could talk, you and I.”

“But of course. Come through....” Cullen offered her a grin, the glitter of humour in his eyes. “But perhaps keeping your cloak drawn over your armour would be a good idea after all. Lest we send the entire building into an uncontrollable frenzy so close to dinner.”

The woman followed him through the building to the large back porch, the rolling pastures down to the river dotted with several bodies, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. The sound of voices in the kitchen rose through the open window, and by the stairs leading from it, Cullen could make out Finn, peeling potatoes with Wilfred and another Templar. Cassandra’s eyes roamed across the sight before her as she leant against the wooden railing.

“This place is very beautiful… You have been busy, I take it?”

“Very.” Cullen gave a chuckle, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as he leant a shoulder against one of the wooden pillars. “Since the Chantry refuses to fully support the idea, our sanctuary is the only such place in all Ferelden. And there are a great deal more Templars than bed space, I can assure you.”

“Her Holiness is very supportive of-“

“If she was truly supportive, she would have found the funds to set up others like it. But, it is a shame in the face of the Chantry. It would never be approved.”

Cassandra gave a huff of frustration, turning to face him. “I cannot argue with you. But you must know that I agree with you…as does Leliana.”

“I am very thankful she granted us the land to begin with.” Cullen shrugged, looking back out over the field as a group of men laughed. “It has done good, this place. It continues to do good.”

“Maker bless you for the work you do, Commander.”

“I walk only the path set for me by Him. And...” There was a grimace of annoyance on his brow, Cullen glancing to her once more.  “Just _Cullen,_ Seeker. I command nothing, and I am perfectly happy with that. I have not held that title for a long time now either.”

“My apologies.” Cassandra hesitated, before her eyes drifted to Finn, giggling as he continued his work. “But I see you have gained another title in the many years that have passed...”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, an amused grin finding his face. “The boy? The Maker’s gift alone. I can take no such credit. He is a good lad, though.”

“There was rumour of a young child living amongst the senile Templars at the eastern banks of Lake Calenhad... Word travels along the road, even to Val Royeaux.”

“The Orlesians always did love _gossip_.”

Cassandra’s scoffed in amusement, a fond smile finding her face as she watched him. “How old is he?”

“He will be six come Summersday.”

“It is a hardly necessary for me to ask that he is your child...”

A snort of humour left Cullen. “No, that is not something I have ever attempted nor wished to deny. Something about the hair....

There was a brief pause before Cassandra looked to him once more. “And it is…just the two of you?”

“Yes, along with the others who share the sanctuary. His mother and I are not in contact. The last time we spoke was…several months before he came to be in my care.” Cullen could not avoid the inevitable cringe at what his words implied; _the truth,_ he chastised himself. _“_ Regardless, he does not know her. She passed when he was still a babe.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He knows no differently. She chose to leave our lives long before she passed, and he has suffered not.”

“Chose?”

There was a pause in her words, almost suspicion in the Seeker’s eyes and Cullen hesitated, the beginnings of a frown finding his brow, before continuing slowly. “Yes. _Chose_.”

“You truly believe that?”

“Why would I not believe that?”

“Because... it would be a truth most unlike her character.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and her words chilled his very spine. Cullen stared at her in near disbelief, before turning his eyes from her, instead focusing out across the plain, doing his best to recover some semblance of stoicism on his face. “I don’t know what you could mean, Seeker…”

Cassandra did not reply, instead offering him that _infuriating_ stare; the very same one she had worn as she’d cut through his lies at being happy in Kirkwall, and silenced his tantrums over her refusal to appoint a replacement in Skyhold as the withdrawal had wracked him. It was not anger but somehow Cullen found he could not lie in the face of it. His fingers drummed along the wood of the fencing, irritated, annoyed. A low chuckle left him, fingers curling around the edging of the wood.

“Of course. The Left Hand of the Divine continues to reach out. What depths did Her Holiness trawl to answer her precious _gossip?_ ”

“Cullen, I-“

_“That’s why you’re here?!”_ It was a snarl of a reply, cutting her off, and Cassandra recoiled.

“I only wish to talk. With my letters ignored, I had no choice but to make an appearance in person!”

Cullen scoffed, finally turning back to the woman, jaw set in anger. “I have work to do, Seeker. As I am sure you do. I do not have time to dwell in petty matters such as the past.”

“ _Cullen_.“

“No.” He held up a hand, silencing her. “Why now? Why come here, why the bother of travelling this far South simply for an answer you already know? You think you know the truth? Then you will understand why the boy lives in blissful ignorance of that truth. Why I _must_ protect him.” His voice little more than a hiss, stepping in closer to the woman. “I do not know what your agenda is, Cassandra, but I want no part of it. Our lives have been peaceful, we live a simple existence doing the work the Maker asks. I will not allow the Chantry to bring their chaos to our doorstep. I do not know _how_ you found out, how Her Holiness came to possess such knowledge, but it matters not. He is just a boy… and he is _my_ boy.” There was a pant on his breath as he paused, clenched fists near painful. “And you will not draw him into this scheme of yours.”

And with a snarl of anger, Cullen left her side, disappearing back into the building as his footsteps rebounded off the walls, brushing past a wide-eyed Rylen, who appeared in the doorway and glanced back, confused, before startling at Cassandra’s presence.

“Lady Pentaghast. This is a surprise. I take it you were _conversing_ with Cullen?”

“I was until he decided he had finished. I see age has not dulled his temper nor his stubbornness.”

The man chuckled, before nodding inside. “Ah, he’s always a little tetchy before dinner. Come, the wife’s got food on the stove. There’s plenty to share. I’m sure he’ll be more amicable with a full belly.”

"I doubt it very much but I am always willing to hope."

 

* * *

 

As it was, Cullen skipped dinner entirely, choosing instead to relieve what had quickly become a seething anger on chopping firewood. With each swing of the axe, his mind seemed to reel - _how could Leliana have possibly known? How many other knew? Was it Chantry knowledge? How long had they know?_

It wasn’t until Finn had appeared post-dinner, chattering about the Lady Seeker (now without armour and instead in plain clothes) who had joined them for dinner, that Cullen had calmed enough to think more clearly. He took a seat on the steps of their cabin with parchment before him, as Finn took off to splash amongst the banks of the river, _Ser_ Meatball barking alongside him in the cool water.

His elder sister had been awaiting a reply for near a week now. Mia was persistent in her demands for updates on her nephew (not him, Cullen would frequently note, to much scorn) and failure to respond often resulted in a further letter arriving post-haste. Writing about his daily activities was a welcome relief to the current pressure, his mind wandering easily until footsteps met his ear, and Cassandra was before him once again. She watched him, Cullen remaining focused on the parchment, and when she spoke, it was with a quiet voice.

“I see you are far better at keeping in touch with your sister.” Her reply was a raised glance, his writing hand stilling. “I remember how often Josephine would receive those letters, would pester you to reply. Elicia used to threaten to cut you off from the training grounds if you did not reply…”

The very mention of her name caused Cullen to bristle, and Cassandra to fall silent. It was so very strange, this tension between them. Next to Elicia, Cassandra had been his closest confident in past times - after all, she had been the one to pluck him from Kirkwall’s madness and encourage him to break free of lyrium. Throughout the Inquisition, Cassandra had remained a steady force of strength, unshakeable in her belief in him. Cullen owed her a great deal, not that he suspected she would ever wish to see him repay it. He owed her more than a childish tantrum. His quill tapped irritably at the parchment, before Cullen placed it to one side with a sigh, leaning back to bear weight on his knuckles as he looked to her. “Why have you come, Cassandra? The truth.”

“Truthfully?” The Seeker moved to sit next to him, looking to him with a somber yet sorry gaze. “As a _friend_ . When the news about the Inquisitor came to Val Royeaux, I was as grieved as any of us could be but I...well… my thoughts turned to you. I...I know the pain of losing the one you love. It is a heartache few can imagine, and I did not want you to believe you were alone. You were here, alone, grieving her loss...yet I did not want to intrude. Maker knows I have never been fond of _fretting_ , and I knew you did not need me coddling you. But when the rumours of the boy reached us, and I knew you had lost Elicia...”

“I lost her long before that shipwreck, Cassandra.” There was a silence, poignant and painful, before he spoke again. “I lost her the moment I let her sail to Ostwick. She came to visit, before she left for the Marches for her...wedding. I still don’t know why she came…But I know I should have done more, should have said more. I should have put aside my hurt and...” He trailed off with a disgusted sigh, waving a hand in place of continuing.

“That is not your fault, Cullen.” Cassandra was met with a scathing look, the admission that whatever she chose to say in this moment would make little difference to his opinion. “So you truly did not speak with her since...?”

“Not since that visit, no. The next thing I knew was our son appearing at my doorstep.” Even the phrase itself seemed to sting; it was one he could count how many times he had uttered. There was little _our_ about anything to do with the boy other than his parentage.

“But why keep this a secret? Why you have hidden him away here, why you have refused to keep in contact with myself or Her Holiness?! It did not have to be about the Chantry, Cullen…” Cassandra’s face dropped, before looking back to him with remorseful eyes. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have been as abrupt with you, before. I just...would have liked to have believed you could have confided in us. After everything…” She trailed off and received no reply from the man, leaving them sitting in silence, before her eyes found the young boy playing at the river, tossing a stick for the barking mabari. “His name is Finn?”

“Finnian Anthony Dorian. It was her choice.”

“ _Anthony_.” It brought a chuckle from her, the name bringing a smile to her face. “Elicia always did value sentimentality more than she should.” A shriek of joy echoed across the field as the mabari soaked both himself and the boy. “You have really raised him alone...”

Cullen nodded, a fond smile finding his face. “Just the two of us, along with Rylen and the other men here. My sisters like to chip in from time to time, usually to tell me I’m doing something wrong and to _smother_ him in treats. My brother says it is only because they care. Apparently they do the same with his children. We visit them from time to time, when the work here allows it. But otherwise...yes, just us.”

“You must miss her.”

There was a flash of emotion across his face, and Cullen found he could not look at her; he had not been expecting such a blunt question, yet he was unsure _why_. Cassandra had never shied from the more difficult topics of conversation - he should have expected it.  It took him a moment to find his voice once more, before he barely managed to choke out the truthful answer.

“Every day.” Anything else would have been a lie. It may have been years, filled with bitter sorrow and anger, but Elicia’s laughter and wide smile were never far from his mind. He missed the companionship of a woman who knew him so well, who’s gentle hands and gentle heart had pulled him through the worst of days and darkest of nights. Watching Rylen and his new wife, now glowing with the swell of early pregnancy, laugh together, _love_ together, made his heart ache - _it should have been them._ Yes, he missed her.

His eyes wandered back to Finn, sadness tasting so bittersweet as he watched the boy. “But I wanted...for him to be happy. He does not need to see me grieve for a woman he does not know. After how he came to be, and how his early days were spent, I…I wanted things to be easier for him.”

Cassandra’s brow fell into a frown, quiet for a moment, before a disapproving tut passed her lips. “You blame yourself.”

“Who else is there to blame?”

“Elicia would not want you to-”

“The Inquisitor is _dead_ , Cassandra.” Even now, with all the years passed, the words were impossible to say, seeming to stick so violently in his throat. “She does not get a say in where the blame is apportioned to.” The awkward, sudden silence that followed seemed to snuff the air from him, the bitter taste of sorrow on his tongue. How he still hated saying those words, giving any truth to them.

“Cullen…I am so very sorry…”

He waved a hand, with a shake of his head. “I have no right to speak as if the loss is only my own. We _all_ lost her. She was the saviour of this land. The leader of the Inquisition. A dear friend to you.”

“She was the mother of your _child_. You were betrothed-“

“ _Were_. Until she chose to return home, and leave our child at my doorstep, with no warning or admission.” His tongue flicked across his lips, doing his best to temper frustration. “She chose to leave us behind, she chose to leave him-“

“Safely with his _father_. Tell me you do not honestly believe she did so willingly. That you truly believe it was a _choice_.”

It was as though a torch had been brought before him, the very synapses of his mind springing to action. He met Cassandra’s eyes, full of questioning at her choice of words. _Does that mean she did not believe it was a choice either?_ It was a question Cullen had spent many sleepless nights pondering - after all, the letter sent with Finn had made it clear all was not well in the Free Marches. It was easy to put aside, now that she had perished, but the thought still gnawed at him. _What if?_

“I was angry, in the beginning. Part of me believed she had simply abandoned him, out of spite for our… _my_ choice in focus following the disbanding on the Inquisition…”

“The Inquisitor would not-“ Cassandra’s affronted rant was cut short by Cullen’s interjection, a hand finding her upper arm.

“I know. I know that now, with a clearer head.” He took a breath, preparing to give voice to words he had only ever spoken to himself, in his mind, in the dark of night. It was a terrifying prospect, but the idea that Cassandra felt the same, that there was _something_ left unsaid spurred him on. “She left a letter. It was brief, but she said the Free Marches were no longer safe for him. At first, I believed it a convenient excuse. But that must have meant they were no longer safe for her either, that something sinister was afoot in the months between seeing her last and the lad’s arrival. As the anger faded, I...I wondered. Then, of course, I received news that she had died and I...gave less thought to it. I was preoccupied, I had a young babe to look after… and if I was correct, that meant there was something out there, however far, that posed a threat to him. She made as much clear…. That is why I have kept him here, kept even his existence a secret. Perhaps all of this was her choice, perhaps I am cautious with no reason but… no. I do not believe that to be the whole truth.”

It was as though a weight was lifted from his chest - the very secret he was unsure would ever see the light of day freed. He may have sounded a mad man, but it was easier knowing that at least someone had heard the ravings of a mad man. Cassandra, far from looking shocked, breathed what seemed to be a heavy sigh of relief, before offering him a small grin. “Leliana was afraid you would be too lost in your grief to see, but I knew… I knew you would feel the same. I...I received a copy of Swords and Shields around two months ago. It was an early volume, I thought it a strange gift. Until I found a letter tucked amongst the pages. It was an apology of all things…”

“An apology…?”

 “It is...an odd letter, by all accounts.” Cassandra pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from beneath her sleeve, passing it to him. Cullen hesitated before opening the first leaf, and he barely contained the gasp at the handwriting that met him. He had read too many reports, poured over private letters on her journeys to ever forget the looping scrawl that the Inquisitor had. It was hers, there was no question.

"It is from  _Elicia?!_ "

"That is what I presume."

"Maker's breath..."

He bit back the urge to either laugh or cry, doing his best to stop the shake in his hands.  _A letter from her_. It was impossible. He scanned the page, noting the lack of detail that filled it. A simple apology to open, followed by a portion of the Chant of Light.

_'Great heroes beyond counting raised oak and iron ‘gainst chains of north-men and walked the lonely worm-roads evermore. Mighty of arm and warmest of heart, rendered to dust...'_

“Bitter is sorrow, ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill. I don’t understand…" Cullen read it again, thumb tapping against the parchment. "Why this portion of the Chant?”

Cassandra’s face remained stoic, but her eyes glittered with possibility. “I believe she is talking about herself….and you.”

“Me?” _Mighty of arm and warmest of heart_ … She had said it once in the chapel at Skyhold, between battles and during a quiet moment.

‘ _I like to think it speaks of you, Cullen.’_

_‘Me?’_

_‘Mighty of arm and warmest of heart. It is though someone knew you, and wrote you in a sentence.’_

How ironic that he would remember that now - would she? Was that her purpose in sending this? _If she'd sent it at all._ His finger traced the remaining words, the familiar handwriting like a ghost across the parchment. “If there is anything to learn, Leliana will learn it…”

Cassandra straightened up with a nod. “I once told that to Thom Ranier, while we were travelling in the Dales, hunting for Venatori. The Inquisitor laughed at the time…Perhaps she is hoping that Leliana has not believed what she had been told. She has held her suspicions in private for many years, says there is much that did not ‘add up’. The lack of correspondence in the months leading to her wedding, the speed at which they were married, the wondrous survival of her husband, the rumour of a lack of a body for the funeral-” Cullen flinched at the words, and Cassandra paused, sadness crossing her face. “I forget you did not attend. Out of all of us, you should have been there, Cullen.”

“I couldn’t...Finn was just a babe and I would not have left him. Besides the irony of taking him to his own mother’s funeral as a secret…” A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “I was not in the right frame of mind.”

There was a pain in Cassandra’s face, and an anger he sensed was not aimed at him. “You had a _right_ to be there. By the Maker, you were engaged to be married-”

“Not at that point. She was married to another man, it...it would have been wrong…”                     

The sadness in her eyes betrayed what Cassandra did not say, but she pushed the matter no further. “They claimed to have retrieved her, yet there was no viewing of the body, and there was much secrecy surrounding the cremation…There were questions, even at the time, but Bann Trevelyan claimed their family too grieved to answer, and as time has progressed, those who have questions meet a terrible fury.”

“I see…” Cullen’s eyes fell to the letter once more, mulling over this latest revelation as he read the last lines of the letter - a street address, for Ostwick. “And this address? The one in the letter?”

“It is a home, owned by the Trevelyan family. Varric has confirmed as much through his connections to the city clerks in Ostwick. Another piece to this puzzle.”

Silence fell on the pair once more, and the magnitude of what they were now suggesting seemed to fill the air. “Cassandra, I have spent the last five years trying to put my memories of her to rest. I have been-”

“Hiding away here. Will you hide forever, Cullen?” There was a fire in the Seeker’s eyes so reminiscent of their days in the Inquisition - the passion of believing righteousness, the eagerness to prove it. “Could you live with yourself if she is alive? I am not suggesting we march on Ostwick. Simply that we take a journey through the Free Marches to follow some…rumours.”

“...I don’t know. There is so much that we…”

“What if she _is_ alive, Cullen?”

_What if she was alive?_ Maker, what kind of answer could he give to that? What _if_ she lived? Did that mean she had chosen to leave them after all? Did she know that their son was alive and well - did she still care? What would she say, if they were to meet? Would she be angry that he had not looked into this before? Would she hate him for not asking her to stay when he had the chance?

Stoicism had always served him well. “…Then she has made her choice _exceedingly_ clear. If the past five years have not given her time to consider paying a visit to her own child, then there is little a visit from _me_ could do.”

“You do not mean that.” Cassandra cut through him as easily as she always had, firm and clear. She paused, searching for some kind of response from him, and pressing on when she did not receive it. “You and I both know that she loved you...that nothing would keep her from you and that boy unless it was beyond her power…”

Silence descended once more, and Cullen could not bring himself to lie anymore. “ _If_ she is alive, Cassandra…”

“Then we must do what we can to aid her.”

“And if I am right? That she does not wish to be found?”

“Then we will not find her.”

He could hardly dispute that. Tenacious, stubborn, willful Elicia… she would not be caught unless she had intended it. It had always surprised him how clever she was in the field, how easily tactical decisions came to her. How clearly and simply she made such huge choices, how levelheaded she remained in the face of all that opposed them. Advisors? They were little more than a sounding board once Elicia had made her choice. Perhaps that was where most of his anger lay when she had chosen Ostwick over him - _why was she bowing to her father’s demands now?_ Elicia had never cowed, not once in her time as Inquisitor, and she had held her family at arm’s length, mentioning only that her father was _pushy_ at best. The idea that she had given in, that her fiery attitude had been dulled by duty...it bothered him greatly.

_“_ Bann Trevelyan holds a celebration in her memory each year. We have been invited to attend this year, on the fifth anniversary of… It is held on her birthday. Varric has graciously agreed travel to Ostwick to attend with us, as has Divine Victoria....”

“Why do I not believe that is a coincidence?”

“Because it is not. Leliana had the Chantry sisters in Ostwick request an invite for her attendance and as you can imagine, it was accepted quickly. Bann Trevelyan is not a humble man. They have agreed to accommodate us too.” Cullen remained silent, a heavy frown on his face, before he spoke.

“I suppose it would not hurt to attend. I will think on it, this evening. It is...a lot to consider.”  
  
“Do. I will be staying until the morning, Mistress Rylen has already prepared a room. That should give you time to consider… and Cullen-” Cassandra’s face rose in a wry grin, “-if nothing else, the boy deserves to see the Free Marches. He is, after all, half-Marcher.”

That was enough to make the man scoff in disgust, shaking his head with a defeated sigh and muttering. “He is _Fereldan.”_

 

* * *

 

Cassandra’s offer was all Cullen could contemplate that evening, the very idea of Elicia living pre-occupying his mind, particularly as he’d bathed the boy and dressed him for bed. How would he explain this to Finn? It was enough to make _his_ mind boggle, never mind a child’s -  a child who had no idea the true magnitude of the truth of his mother's identity. The thought weighed heavily on him, and it was not until he returned to his room to find Finn tucked snugly amongst the covers that his melancholy broke, and he chuckled.

“Are we not trying to sleep in your _own bed_ this evening?”

“This _is_ my bed, Daddy.”

“Mh. And one of the one in the other room?”

“That’s for Ser Meatloaf. But he doesn’t really like it either…”

“So I have noted.” The mabari let out a timely snuffle from the edge of the fire at the bottom of the bed, sleeping peacefully on the thick rug. “Well, I suppose it would be cruel to evict you both, particularly before a story…” Cullen gave in with a sigh, climbing into bed next to Finn. It was a battle he was unsure he wanted to win - truthfully, he had never slept as peacefully as he did with the boy next to him.

“Actually…” Finn glanced up to him, frowning slightly, “can we skip story time?”

Cullen was slightly taken aback, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You love a bedtime story...”

“Yeah, but...can I ask a question instead tonight?” The worry on the young boy’s face continued. “What did the Seeker want? Was it...to do with one of the Templars?”

Cullen knew it had been coming, knew he could not lie to the boy’s expectant face.  “No, no. She was not here on Seeker business. She was here to see me, actually. Lady Cassandra is an old friend.”

“Lady _Cassandra_ ?  Like… _By the side of the Divine, Cassandra seeks the truth and finds_ …”

The words of the bard song made Cullen chuckle -  how very strange that they were known to the next generation through a _song,_ one that he could only remember hearing drunken renditions of in the Herald’s Rest. “The very same. Fitting lyrics, even now...”

“Mhm...” Finn began to hum the rest of the tune to himself, Cullen lost to his own thinking as the boy was distracted. How ironic, _Cassandra seeks the truth and finds_. It wasn’t until certain lyrics met his ears, at a louder _than necessary_ tone, that he realised Finn had disappeared beneath the covers, carefully out of reach in a deliberate attempt at trickery. “ _Like Commander Cullen who led his men through the_ -” Cullen managed to fish a foot out with one hand, grappling with him playfully in an attempt to silence him, Finn doing his best to persevere with his song through the erupting giggles at the tickling. “ _Inquisitiiiion_. _A Templar_ , _a_...a knight…who stayed with the... _Daddy_ , you are ruining my singing!”

He pulled him from the covers, Finn emerging with a pout, prodding a disapproving finger into his chest as Cullen laughed. “One could argue the song was ruined to begin with.”

The boy settled back into the sheets, quiet for a moment before piping up once again. “So what did Lady Cassandra _want_ ?”  
  
Cullen hesitated - there was no returning if he told the truth now. “To...invite us on a trip. To the Free Marches.”

“ _The Free Marches_ ?!” Finn nearly shot out of bed, bounding upwards with a gleeful grin. “Oh wow… That means a _boat_ trip too! Why does she want us to go? Are there Templars there that need us?” That the sanctuary was his very first thought humbled Cullen in an instant - Maker bless him, was that all he could think? _He deserves more_. If he had had reservations, they were quickly disappearing.

“No, no. It is...it _will be_ the Inquisitor’s birthday. Her parents, Bann and Lady Trevelyan, host a celebration each year, in remembrance of her. We’ve been invited to attend this year.”

“Oh…for the Inquisitor?” Finn’s face fell into contemplation, before looking back to his father, “Is that because you were friends?”

_Friends._ Cullen wanted to laugh. As if _friends_ could ever explain what had transpired between them. First Templar and Herald, then Commander and Inquisitor, before finally lovers and betrothed, to something that he could not even give a name to. The cruel irony of it all. “Yes,” was his simple answer.  _Your mother and I were friends._

“So are we going?!” And in that moment, the boy had morphed into Elicia before him, wide eyes curious, intrigued and excited in one beaming gaze, all worry and contemplation lifted, and Cullen’s choice was clear.

“Yes…Although we may need to find you some new clothes, and a haircut wouldn’t a terrible idea either.” Cullen had often chastised his own mother for being so remorseful each haircut she had given him, yet now he found a new sympathy for her plight. He often thought the boy must see the world entirely framed by golden curls; they skimmed the collar of his tunic, long enough now to pull into the beginnings of a low ponytail when needed. Finn had never complained, but Cullen knew the day would come that he would need to give in.

The boy in question had settled against his chest with a quiet giggle. “The Free Marches...that’s so far away! Everyone at school will be so jealous…” Finn’s chatter continued, Cullen rubbing circles into his back as he listened with a smile, and it was not long before a wide yawn overtook him, sleep already filling his eyes as he laid a cheek against Cullen’s chest.  “Love you Daddy.”

“Love you more.”

There was a pause, before Finn giggled again, voice filled with sleep. “More than all the mabari in Ferelden?”

“ _More,_ ” Cullen chuckled, brushing the boy’s hair from his face. Finn offered him a grin, struggling to keep his eyes open, and within minutes, he had fallen silent and was gently snoring against him. Cullen watched him sleep before pressing a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of fresh soap and toffee sauce that the boy seemed to smell of, regardless of the occasion, holding him close. “I hope I am doing the right thing for you.”

If his mother was alive, his son deserved the chance of knowing her. If nothing else, he owed Finn that much, to grasp at the chance of a relationship with her.

Somewhere out there, she could be alive, whilst he lay here with their son in his arms. It seemed an almost impossible thought - perhaps believing her to be dead had been easier after all, than facing the possibility that she simply did not wish to be with them. Or that she was at threat of harm. Or _had_ been harmed.

That was, by far, the worst of all scenarios, and despite years of anger, frustration and despair, Cullen knew he would be by Elicia’s side in an instant if she were to need him, especially if she were under threat. His head remained furious that he could not break this underlying devotion, enraged that she still, even now, held such power over him; his traitorous heart whispered that he had always believed love more powerful than any other force.

He _loved_ her. What a bitter pill to swallow. It was far easier to love a memory, a ghost, than to face what was now before him. The urge to find her, gather her in his arms here with the boy and to keep her _safe_ was overwhelming. Just as he had done as they clambered from that snow-covered mountain side escaping Haven. Just as he had when she had fallen through the Eluvian in Skyhold, or was facing Corypheus for the final time, afraid and fearful.

Just as he had done the night before she left for Ostwick, as she’d slept next to him for the final time, and he had wept for another chance to do the same, for the Maker to grant him one last chance.

He was a fool.

A snuffle from the boy in his arms broke his thoughts - Finn deserved to know, he deserved the truth. But in his mind, the haunting statues of the Gallows rose, the chaos of Kirkwall in it’s madness, and the anxiety-ridden thought of taking his son to that place was enough to crush Cullen’s breath from his very lungs. He had worked so hard to build a place of safety for him to grow; what was he doing if not leaping into the abyss, welcoming madness into their lives?

But Cassandra was right, as much as Cullen was loathe to admit it. He could not hide Finn here forever. The very last of his babyhood seemed to have disappeared with the winter snow, rounded cheeks thinning and pudgy legs stretching. The boy seemed to grow an inch each day, at least ten pounds heavier every time Cullen stooped to lift him, and it seemed almost overnight he had gone from the shy toddler clinging to his father’s leg and begging to be carried, to barely stopping to wave goodbye in the mornings as he dashed towards his friends at the schoolhouse, loud and cheerful. He would be rapidly approaching eye level height and yearning for freedom in another blink of an eye, and Cullen could not deny him that. If his own parents had seen fit to allow him the chance of independence at his request, he could hardly do any less for his own son.

It was with that thought in his mind, that he was choosing what was best for the boy, that Cullen found a restless sleep. Images of Elicia found their way into his dreams, pictures of a future he had never allowed himself to more than glimpse at - the three of them, together, happy. Of Finn with his mother, in the manner he remembered himself as a young boy - in awe of her, and the perpetual warmth of her embrace.

The boy deserved that chance. He could not ignore it, even if he wanted to. Cassandra must have known that, or she would not have come. Maker, was he that predictable?

 

And Cassandra’s knowing look as he met her the next morning told him she had indeed known his answer all along.

"You've made your choice?"

“Yes..." He offered her a wry grin, straightening up. "When do we leave?’

“I thought you would never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, an absolutely massive chapter. Oops. It's also incredibly late. Double oops.
> 
> The betting pool will pay out to all those who said she wasn't dead - at least 2 awesome points each! Submit your latest theories and predictions now for the next round!


End file.
